


the minute i feel your energy, the vibe's just taken over me

by safeandsound13sreputationera (safeandsound13)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, cop!bellamy, stripper!bellamy, thats been getting people heated lately so, trigger warning for him using the nickname princess?, what else can i say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13sreputationera
Summary: Drunk Clarke is at a bachelorette party. When Cop!Bellamy shows up to ask them to keep the noise down, she mistakes him for a stripper. He plays along.





	the minute i feel your energy, the vibe's just taken over me

**Author's Note:**

> the purpose of this pseud in the words of t.a. swift (2015):  
>  _Let me say it again, louder for those in the back..._
> 
> _We think we know someone, but the truth is that we only know the version of them that they have chosen to show us._
> 
> _There will be no further explanation.  
>  There will be just reputation. _
> 
> (AKA miss safeandsound participated in the kinkmeme and wishes not to speak of it with anyone ever, pe-ri-odT. you can comment, just dont ever mention any of these fics to me on twitter or tumblr if we're friends, i guess?)
> 
> i was literally three!!! minutes too late with uploading this one for the kinkmeme, but decided to share it regardless. based on the prompt in the summary. enjoy?

Bellamy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before he knocks on the maroon door of the white two-story mansion in front of him, located in one of Arkadia's richer neighbourhoods. There's a wooden nameplate beside the door that says 'Griffin' and there's a camera hanging from the ceiling. The beat of some Carly Rae Jepsen song drums through the walls, windows shaking every time the bass thumps, sound mixed with the rowdy screams and laughter of what he assumes are drunk and obnoxious women. The whole situation makes his skin crawl.

His rough twelve hour shift was almost to an end when multiple people started calling in with noise complaints. Since Miller ducked out five minutes earlier for his booty call with Bryan, Bellamy had no choice to follow up on it by himself before his Captain Jaha got hold of the fact his partner left before the clock struck ten on the dot. He might be annoyed with Miller for having to solve this mess on his own, but he wasn't a snitch.

The fact he wasn't already freshly showered in his bed swiping through tinder for a distraction of his own was putting him in a foul mood and he felt sorry for whoever was about to be on the other side of the door. In fact, he's about three seconds away from kicking in the door himself. He has some issues with his temper sometimes — it's mostly the petty shit that really gets him going.

Like the fact he's pounding down the door, and no one seems to want to get up to open it. Finally, when he's about to take a step back to lift his knee, the door slides open. A blonde with glazed over eyes leans against it, blinking at him for a second as she tries to piece it together; connect what she knows to what's she's seeing in front of her.

She's around his age, probably younger, wavy hair half pulled back from her face. She's gorgeous; from the bright blue eyes, to the plump mouth she's painted red, and the tiny beauty mark above her lip. A sash is draped around her torso, the fancy font spelling out ' _the bachelorette_ ', a plastic crown on top of her head. He assumes it's plastic anyway, you never know in this part of town. Behind her, he can see other women — her friends — dancing to the music and trying to pin the cut out of a kiss mark emoji on top of Chris Hemsworth's mouth. One of the girls — lean, with extensively braided blonde hair — is wearing her bra over her dress instead of under it while trying to do a body shot out of the belly button of a different girl — also blonde, top of her hair pinned back and the rest falling down her shoulders — giggling uncontrollably. It looks like the plot of the movie 'Get Out' come to fruition right in front of him.

He suppresses a groan — this is going to be hell, drunk white girls are _the worst_ — before his gaze flashes back to the woman who opened the door. Her eyes take him in from bottom to top slowly as she presses the rim of her pink solo cup to her lips, other hand coming across her body to take a hold of her elbow, meaning she's definitely checking him out, shamelessly so. He has to clear his throat to get her attention back on his face. Instead of looking embarrassed with being caught, her mouth curves up into a tiny smirk.

"Miss, are you the owner of this residence?" Bellamy starts, getting to the reason he's even here to start with. He tries to keep his voice authoritative but friendly enough to not immediately have her on defense. She rolls her eyes, knocks the cup in her hand back, and he watches her throat for a second longer than necessary as she swallows.

"Miss, I'm serious," he presses, crossing his arms over his short-sleeved uniformed chest, finding it hard not to let his annoyance shimmer through just a little. A drop of liquor trailed down her chin earlier, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. "We've had some noise complaints from your neighbours."

"Okay, _sure_ ," she purses her red lips, still wet from the drink she just took, glistening under the porch light as she puts the cup down on a surface hidden behind the door. Like it's nothing, something else entirely washes over her all of a sudden. She bats her eyelashes, juts out her bottom lip a little as she twirls a strand of hair around her finger. Her voice gets annoyingly deep and hoarse, and he's almost ashamed the sound goes straight to his dick, even if the whole thing looks insincere. "What are you going to do about it, officer?"

Bellamy's brow knots together as he takes her in, then shakes his head lightly as his eyes flick back down to the sash she's wearing. She must be mistaking him for a stripper. He scoffs, unimpressed, brown eyes narrowing. "I'm going to turn off the music so your neighbours can go to sleep and get off my ass, princess."

The nickname slips out before he knows it, but he can't be arsed to apologize for it. She's probably too drunk to fill out a complaint form anyway. Wouldn't be the first time he gets called to Jaha's office for ' _disrespectful behaviour_ '. He doesn't do all too well with rules when he doesn't agree with them. He'll call a woman groping power hungry asshole an asshole when he sees one and he won't care what position in city council they're running for. Desk duty sucks though.

"Oh, I'd like to see you try," she says, challengingly, opening the door wider. She doesn't step aside however, so he has to brush up against her as he maneuvers his way inside sideways. The moment he does, she stares up at him with her big blue eyes, unflinching, bold, and his eyes flick down to her cleavage for just a second. She's wearing a tight red dress matched perfectly to her lips, a sweetheart neckline and thin straps enhancing the curves underneath. She has great tits, and he feels just a little filthy for noticing it without her permission while on duty. He blames it on the fact his sixteen year old sister had been crashing over at his place for the last two months, unannounced, in the midst of one of many runaways sprees because their mom said she couldn't stay out until three am on a school night. He hadn't got much action, too scandalized by the thought of her overhearing or getting up to something while he was out after school hours.

However brief his slip-up, she seems to have noticed, biting down on her bottom lip as she closes the door behind him. The interior design is minimalistic, not very personal except for the family portrait hanging above the fireplace in the wide open living room. It's the same girl who opened the door — safe for her looking a few years younger, her hair long but straightened, a graduation cap perched on top of it — in between what he assumes are her parents, all beaming bright perfect toothpaste commercial smiles. Only child in a house like this; she must have been spoiled.

He makes his way further inside, claps his hands together to draw the attention to him. Authoritatively, he commands, "Time to break up the party, ladies. It's late."

One of them yelps, changes the music to that damn Pony song and when he looks over at the one with the braided hair, she's holding out her phone, probably trying to film what's about to go down. They really honestly think he's a _stripper_. He's strangely flattered.

"This is Clarke," the one with the poofy front part smirks, throwing her arm around the one who opened the door, licking her tongue across her teeth almost viciously. "The bachelorette to end all other bachelorettes."

"Jo, fuck off," Clarke snaps, low, shoving her arm away. Apparently her friend said something she doesn't like.

He's so busy staring at the cute worked-up crinkle in her nose, he forgets to protest when someone shoves Clarke into a kitchen chair they dragged over, and pushes him into her general direction with so much force, his shins bump into her knees.

The music is still going, and he knows this is a make-or-break-it kind of moment. Is he really going to do it? Strip in front of all of these girls, put on a show? Sure, his shift is over and he's technically been off duty for — he glances over at the clock in the corner — seventeen whole minutes, but he's _not_ a fucking stripper. Not a good one anyway.

A strand of hair falls from behind her ear, and without really wanting to, he reaches out to tuck it right back, thumb lingering on her jaw. Her skin is soft, warm. She stares at him, almost curiously, face unreadable. He wants to see an emotion, a sign she's still here and breathing, _anything_ ; something real. Not this fake facade she's putting on, the wall she put up.

He runs his thumb over her lips, causing them to part slightly, liking how it stains the pad of his finger with her lipstick. He wants to see that lipstick smeared all over her pretty little mouth, over him, his mouth, his dick, wants to be her canvas. Fuck.

He's gonna do it. He's going to go along with their stupid mistake just because he's slightly turned on, doesn't know when to quit and thinks he might be able to convince a woman who's about to get married to fuck him instead. Or despite. Bigger miracles have happened.

"God, this is so vanilla," the one she called Jo says with an eye roll, coming over to grab a hold of his shirt. With one swift move, she yanks it open, buttons flying off into every which direction. Her top lip curls in disdain, whole attitude the epitome of holier-than-thou. "You're getting paid good money for this, don't forget it."

His nostrils flare on principle. He's not even getting paid to do what she thinks he's here to do, but even if he was, that doesn't mean she gets to treat him like trash or dangle basic human respect above his head like it's something he has to earn. His mom used to be a sex worker, and that shit pisses him off beyond control. _And_ she just ruined his only fucking short sleeved shirt midsummer.

"Let the sexy man do his job the way he wants to do it," a girl with ruddy hair slurs, speaking up before he has a chance to ruin it all before it really starts, raising her cup in the air like she's toasting.

"I love how you forced yourself to say he was sexy to try and sound like one of us regular heteros," Braided speaks, amused smile playing on her lips. The smaller girl snickers into her shoulder, swaying a little on her feet. "Yeah, I threw up a little in my mouth just now."

He's not completely sure that's just a figure of speech, dragging his eyes back to Clarke in front of him. She looks bored, like she's not really there, distracted by something else, something on her mind. It shouldn't bug him — he's not _actually_ here as eye-candy but as a police officer after all so she's not supposed to be thirsting after him — but the cocky, arrogant part of him that knows just how good he looks in an uniform is still a little offended.

"Fine," he hears Josie's grating voice behind him, "You people are so PC. Let's pretend he's actually worth the large sum of money we're paying him in order not to hurt his sensitive little man feelings."

"Ugh, you're literally only here because your Griffin's cousin," another vaguely familiar girl — glued to the couch, can of beer in her hand, eyes fixated on a muted MMA fight on the huge flat screen hanging on the wall — to Josie, "Nobody _actually_ likes your psycho ass."

The girl has a facial tattoo curling up her cheekbone and ending just above her brow, and maybe he judged Clarke wrongly — her friends seem to be more diverse and less ' _conservative book club_ ' than he initially assumed. He always thought that people you surround yourself with are a good reflection of who you are at your core. He wonders what else the pretty blonde has up her sleeve. If maybe he can find out. The thought trills him in all the ways it shouldn't.

The song changes, a hot latina with a sleek ponytail raises her eyebrows at them from over by the aux cord. She's the only one not wearing a complimentary customized sash spelling out shit like ' _shots queen_ ' , ' _designated drunk_ ' and ' _maid of dishonour_ '. Respect. "Let's get this show on the road then?"

> _she's my cherry pie, cool drink of water,_
> 
> _such a sweet surprise, tastes so good,_
> 
> _make a grown man cry_

He raises his eyebrows at Clarke, wants to give her the option to back out at least. It'll be hard to stop now, but it'll be harder to stop once he's touched her. She just tilts her head, like it's a challenge, and something almost primal (and maybe part of that pettiness he mentioned earlier) makes him throw his shirt back over his shoulders as he grinds up against her. He's barely able to touch her from this angle, but the girls whoop, all excitement and unadulterated desire.

Clarke doesn't even budge.

He kicks her feet apart so her knees fall open and spread wider. Bellamy makes a show of unclipping his handcuffs from his belt, holding them up in the air. A move met with only more screams.

He smirks at Clarke, glides his hands down her arms to position them behind her at the back of the chair. He chooses not to move and stand behind her, so he has to get all up in her personal space, press his chest against hers, faces so close he can feel her warm breath on his cheekbone. Her nipples harden against the fabric of her dress, and his smirk widens. She's not wearing a bra.

"It's cold," she argues, simply, only audible to him, just as he clicks the handcuffs in place around one of her wrists. Clarke inhales sharply, her chest stuttering against his. He thinks she likes it, having the control taken away from her. Then he clicks the other in place — not too tight to bruise her perfect unblemished skin, just enough to keep her hands into place.

Bellamy steps back from her, finally pulling the shirt all the way down his arms, discarding it somewhere in the general direction of the other girls. He's just left in a white tank now, running a hand through his curls. He's not sure how he's going to pull this off, but he decides to go all in.

He rolls his body against hers, crotch moving over her thighs, bumping into her lower abdomen. Finally, there it is. A faint, splotchy blush starting to spread from her collarbone up to her neck, tainting her cheeks an adorable pink.

Bellamy lifts the bottom of his shirt, just a little, just a tease to start off with, drops it back down. He moves his fingers up her arms, shoulders, collarbone, curves of her breasts; doesn't miss the goosebumps he leaves in his trail. She squirms as they make their way up her neck, a featherlight touch. Touching, teasing, but not enough. He wants to hear her say it; wants to hear her say she _wants_ him to touch her.

He kneads his hands into her hair at the back of her head, princess crown thudding to the ground by her feet, pulls it forward so she's bending over a little; the perfect height from him to grind his dick up into her face a few times. One dollar bills are thrown his way, but he hardly notices. 

Pulling at the collar of his shirt at the back of his neck, he lifts the tank off his frame in one smooth movement, revealing the golden brown abs he spends like two hours four days a week in the gym for. Her friends gasp, groan, scream, but all he can focus on is how her pupils dilate, darken up her eyes from a light sapphire to a deep midnight blue. He's glad at least someone is finally admiring his hard labor; glad it's her who gets to see it up close.

> _put a smile on your face, ten miles wide_
> 
> _looks so good, bring a tear to your eye_
> 
> _sweet cherry pie, yeah, pie_

He kneels down in front of her, sets his big warm hands on her bare knees, licks a stripe up her collarbone, her neck, nips at her jaw just a little, just enough. She presses her thighs together, tries so hard to keep her face neutral he's sure she's going to pop a vessel any second now.

The song comes to an end, giving him a second to catch his breath as the girls start to argue on what should be the next one playing. He raises to his feet, tries to meet Clarke's gaze curiously.

"Can you uncuff me?" She asks, impatient, not meeting his eyes as she squirms in her seat. "My wrists hurt." Sweet thing wouldn't survive a day out on the streets outside of her safe little neighbourhood.

He grins, cocky, in a way he knows she'll hate. "Say the magic word."

Clarke grits her teeth together, letting out a loud puff of air through her nose. "Uncuff me, _please_ , Officer Dickwad."

Bellamy snickers, amused, moving around her to unlock the cuffs one by one. He runs his finger over the slightly red skin on her wrist after he gets the first one free, and she jerks in her seat, pulling it into her lap.

He comes back to stand in front of her, rests his hands on his hips, a bead of sweat trailing down his neck and chest pec, a bead she follows with her eyes before quickly looking away, grabbing a shot from the tray balanced precariously on the console table behind the sofa. Bellamy licks his lips, stares down at her. "You should at least try and have some fun, princess. You've barely cracked a smile this whole time."

"Well, I called off my wedding earlier today," Clarke says, casual, even though she grimaces and avoids his gaze. Then she knocks back the shot, hissing after she swallows it's bitter taste down. "Excuse me for not being in the mood."

"Why?" He asks, a crease in between his brows. She finally meets his eyes, searching for something she apparently finds. Clarke nods over at the hot latina by the drinks table with a sour look on her face, pouring half a bottle of vodka in her pink cup. "Because he was screwing her as well."

Bellamy whistles, low, a sickening feeling settling in his gut. Two gorgeous woman and he managed to fuck it up with both of them. "He's an idiot."

"Yeah," Clarke says, distracted, and when he looks back down at her, she doesn't look away for once, holds his gaze as she bites down on her bottom lip. The sight makes his dick twitch in his pants.

Look, he would have felt bad if she was actually getting married. But now that he knows she isn't — it's fair game really. If she's willing — and he thinks she might be after he pleads his case — he'll totally be her rebound. The guy she gets under to get over the ex-fiancé who cheated on her and broke her heart. He'll give her whatever she wants. She looks like she'd make beautiful noises; coming apart. He'd love to hear them, would love to be the cause of them.

"So what's this?" He wonders, looking around the party pointedly. "Decided to run with the whole bachelorette thing literally?"

Clarke opens her mouth, closes it soundlessly. He sees it wash over her for a second, the polite response she might have given the others, the expected answer. Again, she tries, "I wasn't ready to deal with the fall-out of this whole mess. So I figured I'd get through today and drink enough to be able to face my parents tomorrow with a fairly high blood alcohol level." She inhales sharply, fingers pressing into her dress clad thighs. "Free booze seemed like the least I owed Raven."

Her friends finally seem to have decided on a song, clapping their hands, and hollering as they start making their way back over to the two of them with a small detour to load up on new drinks and snacks.

"Just so you know," Bellamy says, lowering his voice, as he steps closer to her again. He picks up her hands, intertwines their fingers. Her hands are pale and small, slightly clammy. They have to strain to fit in between his. "If I were him, I wouldn't even have had the time for anyone else." She raises her eyebrows, trying to keep a brave face, but he sees the stutter in the rise and fall of her chest, the way she has to swallow tightly. Gruffly, he presses, mouth close to her ear, "I'd spend all of it with you in a bed." He noses her hair aside, creating goosebumps over the soft flesh of her neck with the way his voice vibrates off her skin. "Make you feel so good, babe."

The song is slower, more sensual, so he grinds a little more to try and get her to flush that adorable deep pink color again, makes use of the fact her hands are now free by running them over his chest, down his abdomen, stopping just above the band of his pants — _so Imma care for you, you, you, Imma care for you, you, you, you, yeah_ — and he's pretty sure she can tell he's half hard by now by the way her eyes flick down to his bulge ever so often.

He can't really take his pants off, considering that means he'll have to leave his gun in charge of a bunch of drunk, mostly white women. He'll be the only one going to jail.

Which means he's going to have to try even harder to sell his point before the song is over. He's kind of running out of moves, considering he doesn't know any of the actual stripper moves. He's kind of regretting not just going with Miller to see Magic Mike that one time, or that second time.

Bellamy slides his hands up her thighs, even dips under the fabric of her skirt just a little. Smirks at the little whimper she lets out when he pulls them away, the sound even surprising herself, because her eyes widen just slightly, her shoulders squaring.

He takes her hand again, makes it cover his ass before he slides it over his to his crotch firmly at the climax of the song — _girl you're perfect (girl you're perfect), you're always worth it (you're always worth it), and you deserve it (and you deserve it)_ — grinds into her palm with each repeat of the line, as he leans down to nuzzle her neck at the same time, hands moving over her bare arms. A move that sends almost the entire room in full on hysteria.

"Turn off the music," she croaks out all of a sudden, gaze locked with his. Her pupils are blown wide, a red flush covering her chest and neck, her lips wet from her tongue. Maybe it's too much at once, maybe she wants to stop. Yet he can't help but let a little hope shimmer through.

He arches an eyebrow at her, confusion mixed with amusement, as she rises to her feet, one of her friends already scrambling towards the stereo set. She only turns it down, and he can feel all their eyes on them as the air grows thick, tense. He can't help but tease her. "What's wrong? Started to have a little too much fun?"

Her brows crease in annoyance, ignoring his question as they stand chest to chest. Technically, he's looming over her, but she makes it feel like it's the opposite. "Did you mean what you said?" She crosses her arms, sees doubt flash across her eyes for just a second, lowers her voice considerably. "Or was it part of the act?"

He's so distracted with the way her full tits are pressed up by her arms, perfect view from this angle, thinking how well they'd fit into his hands, he's forgone thinking clearly altogether. "What?"

For some reason she blushes, like she isn't the one who just confidently strode up to someone who she technically thinks is a professional stripper, demanding his attention. "That you'd make me feel good," she whispers, voice hoarse, face tense.

He can't actually believe it's happening, that the girl who lives in a mansion and sits down with a straight back and her ankles crossed, perfectly manicured nails and not a hair out of place, probably has a pearl necklace and an ivy league diploma lying somewhere in her room is prepositioning _him_. He huffs, humoured, making a point of looking down at his crotch, starting to become just a little uncomfortable at this point. Does she not realize the effect she has on people? "It definitely wasn't an act."

She bites her lip, searching his eyes, and his fingers twitch at his sides, desperate to tug it free, run his tongue along the seam of her mouth. "Do you have somewhere to be?"

"My shift ended already," he says, maybe a little too eager. "This was my last stop."

"Good," she replies, firm, running her hand down his forearm before slipping her hand into his. One of her friends — Raven, the other woman — throws wads of cash his way, mostly as a joke he hopes, starting a stream of whoops from the others as Clarke leads him up the stairs.

It's a longer walk to her room than he'd expected, but he guesses it comes with living in a castle. As soon as the double doors to her bedroom close behind them, she presses up against him, making him knock back against them.

Their fingers are still tangled together, and she rises up her tiptoes to be eye-to-eye with him, her chest flush against his. Her breath is hot on his face, smelling like a fruity drink. His free hand tucks some hair behind her ear, running his finger across the exposed shell and she lets out a shaky breath, blue eyes still focused on his. Her hand slides from his shoulder to his neck, nuzzling her nose against his as they share a shiver between them; anticipation thrumming between their bodies, want settling under his skin, almost like an itch.

"I have a confession to make," he says, her mouth centimeters away from his. She's so close. He wants nothing more than to breathe her in. But after her fiancé lying to her like that, he figures he at least owes her the truth. Then she can decide on her own if this is still something she wants.

After a beat, she pulls back, blinking at him. "What?"

He grimaces slightly as her hands drops from his neck, accidentally brushing across his groin. "I'm not a stripper."

"You're not? But— then— how—" She stammers as he watches her try and process it; confusion in her eyes, nose crinkled lightly, crease between her brows. His fingers itch to smooth it out, unwrinkle her pretty face, kiss it better.

"I was _actually_ here because of a noise complaint."

"That's— " She shakes her head lightly, making her hair bounce down her shoulder. Her face is hard to read now. "You just went along with it?"

"After I saw you?" He scoffs, can't help but place his hand on her elbow, slide it up to her shoulder slowly until he can brush his thumb against the pulse point in her neck. " _Yeah_."

"Now that you mention it," Clarke replies, biting back a smile as she presses herself back up against him. "There was an alarming lack of body glitter."

He can't help but lean down, finally pressing his lips against hers, just briefly. She almost whines when he pulls away. "I'm Bellamy, by the way."

First, Clarke slides her hands into the back of his hair, pulling him back down to meet her lips, his banding around her waist to keep her close. "That's totally a stripper name," she laughs against his mouth, devious glint in her eyes. He loves seeing her like this; alive. A stark difference to the detachment all over her face when the night started. "Ever considered the sex worker business?"

"Ha-ha," he mutters, dry, starting to pepper kisses down her neck, happy when he finally gets to suck on the tight tendon, leave a mark. He meets her eyes once he's done, feels his pants tighten at the way her lips are parted. "Ever consider stand-up comedy?"

"Fuck," she breathes, staring at his lips, and it sounds so filthy coming from her perfect mouth, "I can't stop thinking of your mouth on me."

He almost chokes, fingers digging into the skin of her back harder. Bellamy's voice strains as he replies, hands sliding down to cup her ass firmly, squeezing, "How about we turn those thoughts into actions, huh?"

"Unzip me," she orders, and he's surely she barely even registered what he was saying with the way her eyes are glazed over, turning around. He drags down her zipper, resisting to run his fingers over the newly exposed smooth-looking skin.

While she makes quick work of her dress, he takes off his belt, discarding his gun and badge on top of her vanity carefully before toeing off his boots and kicking off his pants.

Clarke's sitting on the bed, just in her panties, and he has to take a second to collect himself. Her tits look absolutely heavenly with the way she's leaning back on her elbows, knees pulled up just a little. There's a wet spot on her black thong that he can make out from metres away. Fuck.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs as he crawls on top of the bed, starts kissing up her legs, starting at her knee as his hands slide up her thighs, pulling her closer. "So fucking beautiful," he breathes against her heat, making her squirm, already hooking his thumbs around her underwear. He can't wait any longer to taste her.

Clarke helps him by lifting her hips, spreading her knees wider as he settles down between her thighs. One arm comes up to rest over her hips, pinning her down, which immediately turns out to be a good idea, considering she starts bucking up against him as soon as he slides a finger into her, experimentally. She's dripping already, and he swells with pride just a little, knowing he did that.

He pulls it back, slides it between her folds, circles her clit as he watches her face, the little moan that leaves her lips already the best sound he's ever heard. Satisfied, he pushes it back in, this time adding another finger as he simultaneously leans down to lick a stripe up her cunt, sucking at her clit. She says his name like it's a prayer, one hand knotting itself into his hair, and the other moving down her chest to roll one of her nipples in between her fingers. His hips grind into the bed involuntarily at the sight.

His fingers pump in and out of her while he keeps licking and sucking, repeating any move that gets her to make a noise or causes her face to twist in pleasure. He can't tear his eyes away from her; the way her eyes are screwed shut, her teeth digging into her lip, the flush on her cheeks, the little sharp intakes of breaths, the way she writhes against him. It's the most gorgeous thing he's ever witnessed, the most turned on he's maybe ever gotten from seeing a girl get off.

Her climax comes fast and hard, a strangled moan leaving her lips, thighs quaking, pulling on his hair, hard, as he helps prolong her orgasm and bring her back down slowly with small kitten licks against her bundle of nerves, fingers stilling inside her.

Clarke pulls him back up almost desperately, licks the taste of herself out of his mouth before pulling up his hand and licking his fingers clean from her juices as well. He can't do anything but stare, wonder how he got this lucky, where she's been hiding.

"Fuck," she breathes, after dropping her head back on the pillow with a loud thud, blonde hair fanned across the silk material, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes. "I haven't come that hard in years."

Something ugly and jealous tugs at his insides briefly. He can't believe the dude cheated on her and didn't even know how to properly make her come. How he took her for granted, this beautiful, funny, interesting girl. Took her for granted for years. Never showed her how special she is, how well she takes it, what a good girl she is.

"There's more where that came from," he smirks, sliding his hands up her sides, reveling in how soft she feels against his calloused hands.

He tits feel amazing pressed up against his chest, but he feels a primal urge to get his mouth on those as well. Bellamy starts peppering kisses down her neck and collarbone, nipping on the top of the curves of her breasts, before biting at her hard, pink nipple, soothing the ache by sucking it into his mouth directly after. Her knees tighten around his hips, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades.

Her fingers rake down his back, start tugging at his boxers as he alternates with his hands and mouth on her tits, giving them equal amounts of attention. He could play with them for hours, if she let him, but he can feel she's desperate for something else now.

Bellamy helps her with the boxers, kicking them off distractedly as he groans against her sternum when his cock slides up against her wet centre. Her fingertips dig into his ass, and he can tell she's straining, "Bellamy—"

"Yeah?" He grins, leaning back to look at her, sitting back so they're minimally touching. Her chest and neck are covered in red, some even slightly purple, marks, and he has to clench his jaw thinking about her waking up with a reminder of their night, having to hide them from her parents with makeup or clothes when she tells them the wedding's off, try and hide the fact that instead of telling them sooner, she was fucking some stranger in her childhood bedroom, begging him to make her come.

"Can you—" Clarke starts, eyes squeezed shut, breaks herself off, bucks up against the air now he's too far away from her. There's a dimple above her brow, a frustrated sigh leaving her pursed lips. One of her hands slides down her stomach, resting on her mons like she might start herself if he doesn't soon. "Inside me."

His grin widens as he circles her belly button, just grazes the skin, making her want to press her thighs together to release some of the friction but unable to because of him being settled in between them. "I thought we discussed your manners earlier."

Her face creases up, eyes turning even darker on his. "Inside me, _please_. Bellamy, please." So she's not above begging, good to know.

"Condom?" He asks, done with teasing considering he might blow his load sometime soon just by looking at her, and she sits up slightly, starts fumbling with her nightstand, knocking over her lamp before pulling open the drawer, feeling around for the plastic wrapper.

He's chuckling at her eagerness, but it fades fast when she opens it with her teeth, fuck, tossing the foil aside haphazardly before reaching between them to roll it over his cock, pinching the tip of the rubber as she does so. It pulses underneath her touch, desperate for release by now.

Clarke slides her hand back up his shoulder, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck as she pulls his mouth back down on hers, spine curving back into the mattress, taking him with her. "Please," she murmurs against his lips, "I can't wait any longer."

He doesn't need for her to repeat that, reaching down between them to guide his cock to her entrance. He slides in, just a few centimetres, closes his eyes at the sensation of her walls fluttering around him. His forearms start to tremble, so he has to lower himself onto his elbows, pressing a soft kiss against her jaw.

"More," she breathes, desperate, his mouth curving up against her neck as she adds, " _Please_ , Bellamy."

Clarke bites down into his shoulder with a strained noise as he fills her completely, and he lets her adjust for a second, waits for her to relax underneath him before he pulls back out, slides back in. Repeats, slowly, until she starts clenching around him, digging her heels into his thighs, edging him on, meeting him in the middle.

Bellamy brings up the tempo, slams back in harder and harder each time. She's so warm, so wet, feels so good, so tight. The slide of her skin against his is absolutely maddening, makes him pound into her even more vigorously.

"You're— _oh_ —amazing," she stammers against his shoulder, letting out little beautiful gasps, desperately clinging into him as one of his hands disappears in between them, thumbing at her clit as he presses kisses across her collarbone. "Fuck."

He feels her tightening around him, and he's close, so close, that when she moans loudly, second orgasm washing over her, he immediately comes too, her walls clenching and unclenching, milking every last drop from his balls until he sees little white stars behind his eyelids.

He collapses on top of her, spent, comes to his senses a few seconds later and tries to move off her, probably crushing her, but she tightens her hold on him, clings closer, sounds almost petulant as she whines, "No."

Bellamy laughs breathily against her shoulder, fondly kissing her neck on the spot he can see her rapid pulse flutter. After a while, he has to get off her in fear of suffocating her, rolling into his side next to her instead. He leans over and discards the condom in the trash can beside her nightstand after tying it off, before settling back under the covers.

Clarke turns onto her side herself, and he can hear her thinking loudly, can see her trying to process what just happened and what's supposed to happen now. It's endearing, almost. He pulls her into his chest, her frame only stiffening for a second before she relaxes into him, snuggling further into his chest.

It's quiet for a moment, her finger drawing indecipherable patterns over his pec, his hand trailing her spine slowly. He doesn't want it to be over. He likes her. He wants to get to know her, what makes her tick, what annoys her, what she wants to be what she grows up, what her favorite color is, the fastest way he can make her come, the easiest way he can make her laugh.

"You could stay, if you want," she says, eerily casual, at the same time as he asks, "Do you maybe want to go grab some coffee with me sometime?"

His heart beats loudly in his chest, drumming in his ears as they both share an awkward laugh. Bellamy licks his lips, splays his hand across her shoulder blade. "How about I stay, and we get coffee in the morning?"

She arches one of her perfect brows, his stomach flipping at the sight of her faded lipstick. "After I call off my wedding." He knows what's she's trying to do. Give him an out. It's a messy situation, she's reminding him.

"They'll say it's because of your love affair with a stripper." He's never been afraid of a little mess.

"I found out he's a police officer, actually. He almost arrested me for disorderly conduct."

"Oh, that fixes everything. Your parents will welcome him with open arms for sure," he deadpans and she smiles, pressing her mouth up against his again for a languid, lazy kiss. Pecking his mouth a few times before pulling back completely.

"I don't care about them," she replies, soft, and he's not sure if he just imagines the slight blush creeping onto her cheeks, but she looks adorable regardless. "I like you."

"You're _sure_ it's not just my mouth?"

Clarke rolls her eyes, pinches his arm, and she's definitely blushing now. "Shut up."

"I like you, too," he says, not because he thinks she needs to hear it, but because he really wants to. He would do or say anything to see one of those beautiful smiles on her face, he's figured that out already.

He earns one, before she kisses his sternum sweetly. He feels warm all over. "Coffee sounds perfect."

(Tomorrow over breakfast, Emori will inform them with a mouth half-full of lucky charms, eyes trained on her phone in front of her, "I knew he was a real cop from the beginning."

She will be the only one up, her other friends still discarded around the house in various states of undress.

He'll pause with his mouth on Clarke's bare shoulder, where her shirt has slipped down, an arm wrapped around waist. "What?"

"You've arrested my boyfriend a couple of times. John? Tall, skinny? Looks kind of like one of those hyenas from the Lion King?"

"John Murphy?" One of his regulars. Of course.

"That's the one."

He snorts. "Lucky girl."

"Thanks for the warning, Em," Clarke says, dryly, but her friend only shrugs, making a half-impressed noise in the back of her throat.

Mockingly, she says, "By the looks and sounds of it, you did just fine without it, _princess_.")

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if should ever attempt this again i guess? i wrote three in total so i'll be uploading the other two sometime this week.


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